Just Because
by West27
Summary: After stumbling down an icy slope, England is left immobile and injured, meaning he's forced to stay put in the woods on his property. The Brit loses hope when the moon rises and temperature drops… then, a wonderfully familiar idiot finds him. Some fluff that could be viewed as Yaoi... but mostly a friendship fic. Rated for language.
1. The Accident

**Chapter 1:**** The Accident**

**************Date:** 22nd** December, 2002**

* * *

Winter was quite possibly England's least favourite season, yet he didn't dislike it. The nights were cold and bitter, the days often grey and miserable with overcast skies. The rains of the day would freeze overnight creating dangerous patches of ice on the roads. England himself had skidded on these tarmac terrors numerous times. Luckily for him he hadn't crashed once – he was a careful driver, unlike a certain American and Italian he knew of.

Yet, winter had its good points too; Christmas, for one was a favourite holiday. Usually he spent the evenings alone by the log fire with a good book, a plate of hot mince pies with a dollop of fresh cream and a lovely glass of sherry or rum to wash it down with. Sometimes that moody little cat of his would join him.

Then, on the 25th of December, France would invite him and some of the others for Christmas lunch. A crown of turkey, sliced beef silver-side and potatoes. Delicious. He had to admit, that frog was a wanker but he did make a lovely roast.

Aside from Christmas and the good-awful frost and wind, snow was a rare to experience. At Canada's house he would gaze contently as small fluffy flakes fell to the ground, forming deep three-foot piles along the ground. America and Canada would then initiate the snowball war – of course, being a gentleman, he would never partake in such childish activities… by choice. And with France around… he couldn't help himself.

And then there was snow at his house; it was a rare spectacle to behold. He didn't envy his big brother Scotland. The snow he got was as torrential as the rain. And when it did snow, it was more like sleet. Small, icy pinpricks of pain. It would never snow enough to be like Canada's; instead the snow would settle causing on-road problems or it'd melt and turn to a greyish gritty slush.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland still had three days until he could sample that juicy roast turkey. For now he had to settle with his tipple and pies by the warm fire.

That was precisely why he was wandering the private woodland area that surrounded his country-side mansion. It was a seasonal mansion that he would escape to for the holidays. Lovely and private without any nosy neighbours to stifle him.

He needed to collect some fire wood for the hearth. Last night he'd thrown the last of his timber on the flames until they were reduced to a pile of ash and cinders.

Arthur didn't expect he'd be out for too long, so he simply wore a lightweight lime jacket over his knitted plaid vest and long-sleeved shirt. It was only a little nippy outside so he saw no reason to be wearing more. This year Arthur had been blessed with snow – thick white snow, just like what Scotland and the North American brothers got.

The Brit had been out for no more than a couple of hours. The woods stretched out for a good three miles across his land, plus. Usually there were always plenty of dry dead branches and such which he could pick up and take home; however today was not the case. He held only a few sticks that could hardly be of use.

"Bloody hell." Arthur muttered. He paused briefly to zip the jacket up and to assess his situation; the slate-grey sky was darkening with the incoming evening. The last thing he wanted was to be caught out here alone in the sub-zero temperatures. He'd absolutely freeze!

On the other hand he'd also be going home without enough fire wood to kindle a barbeque.

Well… it would be better than freezing out here… but where was he exactly?

Now that he thought about it… Arthur had no idea where in the woods he was. His eyes scoured the icy ground where the dirt track usually was. The track he had been following.

Ah. It wasn't there. Only snow.

"Never mind…" He told himself, worry hinted in his tone and mossy eyes. Too bad there was no-one to see the poor man.

Arthur trudged back the way he came, following the trail of mangled footprints he'd left beforehand. The wind was beginning to pick up considerably until Arthur could feel it; and with such a flimsy jacket it wasn't too long before he was shivering without relent.

Stepping heavily, Arthur found himself near a bank that rolled down into a steep twenty foot hill.

The blonde skimmed along the edge, ruffling his short hair. He'd long abandoned the useless sticks in favour of having both hands free just in case he took a tumble and needed to catch himself.

God knows how long that stretch of bank went on for but he certainly hadn't come this way at earlier. He left to dwell in his thoughts. Warm thoughts. Happy thoughts of sherry and cocoa, mince pies and roast dinner, family and the fireplace.

Oh Christ, was he lonely. Even having Iain or Jack or even Francis around would do for company.

A brief pain in his foot lead to his world spinning as he planted face-first into the grit and snow. Frost and small sharp stones cut into him as he tumbled down the slope, rolling and sliding until he was partially upright which ultimately ended with him reaching the foot of the hillside on his bum.

Arthur's head was spinning with a mixture of shock and pain, overruled by confusion.

A few hazy minutes passed and the Brit's weathered face creased into deep trenches of pain as he erected his back. A young oak caught his attention. He saw it's small, gnarled roots as refuge from the cold solid earth underfoot. On his hands and knees he went, dragging his bedraggled form over to rest against the grooved trunk.

Tiny white forms twirled down from the darkened skies, drifting effortlessly to replace what had already fallen down below. Arthur shivered again.

The pain continued as a dull throbbing in his ankle and leg, growing more intense whenever he tried to twist it. Must've fallen on it funny just now.

He pulled his knee up to his chin and gingerly peeled back the cuff of his flat-front trousers. A dark clot that ran the length of his shin made him freeze momentarily. When the flesh of his leg was bared against the sharp edge of the wind, indeed he could see a trail of blood flowing from a horizontal gash beneath his knee.

The blood flow had already stemmed even when he gave the wound a testing squeeze. His eyes traced the uneven crimson mark, the fresher liquid lighter against the old.

Arthur groaned, pushing his head against the oak bark. Unbeknown to him his cheek bore a couple of scratches. The fall had also left his shoulder mottled blue and black. Give it an hour and the bruise would be a beautiful shade of violet.

His ankle, the one that the tree root ensnared, was also broken.

This was going to be a long night.


	2. The Hero Arrives

**Chapter 2:**** The Hero Arrives**

* * *

England had no idea how long he'd been sat there beneath the tree. By now the sun had set entirely and the crescent moon was hanging low in the sky behind a veil of wispy translucent clouds.

That was another thing he hated about winter: the short days that rolled into pitch black nights as early as six in the afternoon.

It was too dark to read the time on his watch – could've been eight o'clock, could've been twelve thirty. He was clueless.

Arthur exhaled. Bloody hell, was it getting cold!

The nation squared his shoulders trying to retain his body heat. Without even a pair of gloves Arthur tucked his hands into his armpits and clamped down, groaning. The cold had numbed his initial pain only to bring forth a new one; a ripe stinging sensation.

Well, this was bloody wonderful, wasn't it?

The cold air was making his throat and mouth dry. He hadn't yet eaten dinner, either. On the stove at home he'd put a pot of leftover beef stew to simmer on a low heat. Such a hearty happy meal to have in these winter months without clearing out the cupboards. A few carrots, some sliced potato, a pound of beef and some cut bread or a Yorkshire pudding or two… and voila! Delicious.

"Uh…" Arthur grappled his stomach hearing hungry protests.

_'Grow a spine and walk home! Get up, get up! If you don't, you're gonna starve!"_

Ugh. Arthur cringed, petting his belly, trying to ignore it.

He couldn't sleep either. Not if it meant the possibility of missing out the opportunity of calling for help if he heard or saw someone nearby…

Ah, who was he kidding? This forest was on private land. His land. The London suburbs were miles away – even some runaway brat wouldn't come this deep into the trees. Many territorial farmers lived around and weren't afraid to pull out their shotguns if they saw someone trespassing on their turf – let it be human or animal.

And if he did fall asleep, what if he slipped into something deeper? Like a frost-induced coma or something? Being a nation, he probably wouldn't die but after a few days of wasting away in the woods, there was a chance that he would eventually pass on – or get seriously ill. But even so, his eyelids were feeling heavy. Nobody would find him.

_Nobody… nobody…_

"Artie?"

_Nobody… nobody…_

"Dude, Artie?"

Arthur head snapped up with a start. His eyes alert with their usual cynical glossiness.

He tried to answer but his teeth chattered with an eerie click-clacking, like a key on a xylophone. Snow crumbled down from the top of the bank, rolling down towards the Brit. In pursuit a large shape slid down at a controlled pace, hunched over as if to avoid the low hanging branches of the neighbouring oaks.

Slowly Arthur turned his quaking form towards the other, eyes wide and doe-like.

"Hey, Artie." Arthur's eyes panned over the form; seemingly bulky beneath a loose-fitting parka jacket, dark denim jeans covered the legs and a pair of black and blue hiking boots. There was a knitted blue scarf hanging from his shoulders, almost touching the frosty ground when the man crouched low. His lustrious blue orbs met dulled mossy ones.

"Idiot…" Arthur mumbled, suddenly breaking the meaningful gaze between them. Alfred chuckled, apparently ignorant to this little remark.

"So, whatcha sittin' around for? Aren't you cold?"

"Of c-c-course not."

"Sarcasm won't getcha anywhere, Artie!"

Arthur crossed his arms with a pout.

"S-sod off… w-wanker…"

The American chuckled again. Artie was so cute when he was agitated.

Alfred unzipped his coat to reveal that underneath he was wearing his signature bomber jacket on top of a sky blue shirt.

"W-what're doing?"

"You're freezin' your ass off really. Don't lie."

Arthur tensed up like mad as the coat was pulled over his own form. He hesitated for a moment… but the coat was warm. And soft. Slipping his arms into the sleeves he settled back down with a contented look upon his face, smoothing out the creases of his frown until It was as soft and warm as Alfred's.

Alfred jiggled the zipper, sealing it. It was baggy on himself so on Arthur the garment was considerably big. Very big. Silly, even. But at least he would be a great deal warmer than before. He unravelled the scarf around his neck adding it to the Brit with a smile. He brushed his gloved fingertips over England's rosy cheeks. He suddenly withdrew with a slight blush realising what he was doing... but even so Arthur didn't seem to mind. In fact Alfred was certain that he'd felt a little bit of a nudge against the pads of his digits, as if Arthur had _enjoyed_ it.

"Better?" Arthur nodded. "Good! It's late, so let's get back, okay? I'm starving!"

The older blonde squirmed looking back at his leg. He bit his lip.

"I-I can't."

* * *

It was typical of the rambunctious fool-American to want to know what the Brit had done. And it was typical for him to be (unknowingly) insensitive and piss himself laughing when Arthur told him, resulting in a teary-eyed scolding along with a few good whacks to the younger nation's head.

And Alfred's resolution?

Of course it had to be a piggy-back ride through the dark shadowy forest. The only request made was that Arthur would light the way with the flashlight Al had brought along since his own arms would be occupied. Arthur buried his face into the crook of Al's neck, sniffling quietly whilst he gripped the American's shoulder with one chalky hand and held the torch in the other, illuminating their path. Somehow America managed to carefully pick his way over the forest floor without so much as stumbling.

_**I'm the hero... for reals this time!** _Alfred couldn't help but grin each time as he told himself this.

The trip back had been a silent one. Ironically the journey took a mere fifteen minutes, give or take five before the mansion was in sight. The house lights were on. Funny. It had been fairly light out when England left to gather firewood… he hadn't turned them on. But then again, he'd left the doors unlocked. Perhaps Alfred switched them on before heading out.

They were soon walking over the gravel of the drive. Alfred's sleek black sedan was parked beside Arthur's simple dark green mini. A third car, a battered brown capri was parked slightly askew to the other two vehicles. It wasn't one Arthur recognised but he paid barely any mind to it. For now, he just wanted to snuggle in his armchair with a bowl of that homemade stew. He'd gotten the recipe from Francis and decided to finally try it out a few days ago. Then maybe he'd have that sherry after all and perhaps a warm bath.

Alfred stopped at the front door, tilting himself forward slightly to keep Arthur from slipping whilst freeing one hand to open the door.

"We're ba-ack ~!" Al sang, kicking the door shut behind him. He carried Arthur down the hall, planting muddy footprints on the immaculate floorboards as he went until they were at the kitchen.

Alfred stood in the doorway grinning like a madman. There was someone standing at the stove wearing an apron, tending to the pot on the hob. That someone had a mop of coppery hair on his head that looked as though the man had been out in a highland gale all night. After a pregnant pause, the 'stranger' turned.

"'Bout bloody time too. Where thee hell did ye think ye were at, ye wee stupid bairn?!"


	3. Iain Takes Charge

**Chapter 3:**** Iain Takes Charge**

* * *

Arthur's eyes narrowed into slits, brow furrowing. He pushed his head forward until his chin was promptly resting on Alfred's shoulder, lifting his arm and pointing the flashlight at his 'nemesis'.

"You're calling me bloody stupid?" He replied hoarsely. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Scotland scoffed.

"Yer an ungrateful brat, ain't ye?" The tall red-head turned back to stir the stew, reaching for one of the bowls that were piled on the work top. "I wanted t' see me brother. Just t' think I was worried when ye weren't here when I showed up."

Iain ladled some of the brothy mix into the bowl and jammed a spoon into it. Alfred carried the torch-wielding Brit over to the small wooden kitchen table. Pulling up a chair, he helped Arthur on and confiscated his weapon. Upon closer inspection, Arthur was still shivering slightly. Perhaps a bath would be in order afterwards.

Iain dumped the bowl before his brother before returning to get his own helping.

"Very funny, Iain. Now, tell me why you're really here."

"I already told ye. Now answer me first question. Where were ye?" Arthur shovelled a mouthful of stew in.

"Why do you care?" Ian shrugged and joined him at the table, being sure to sit on the opposite side.

"I might getta kick outta it." He replied dryly.

"Dude, just tell him."

"Bloody hell, fine," The Englishman hissed through gritted teeth, pushing a lump of beef with the back of his spoon. "I was out getting firewood, slipped and took a bit of a tumble."

"Ye dramatic Nancy-boy! So ye thought ye couldn't get back home without thee help of ye wee boyfriend, eh?"

And when Arthur choked on his mouthful, Alfred laughed it up. He couldn't help it if the Scot's thick accent was difficult to understand so sat blissfully unaware of Iain's accusation.

* * *

"That's a nasty gash, lad."

Dinner was finished and a happy Arthur had a good three bowls of warm stew settling in his stomach. He'd also expanded his response, revealing details which only resulting in being slung over his brother's shoulder to the bathroom. No matter how hard Arthur thumped Iain's back or kneed his chest, no matter what insults he threw at the Scotsman, he wasn't let down and was instead given a drabbling lecture on what a bloody nuisance he was.

Perched on the closed seat of the loo Arthur hunched his shoulders. Alfred's parka had been thrown aside along with Arthur's excess clothing until he was sat in only his Union Flag boxers. The Brit couldn't help but blush, the rosy hue quite prominent against his pale features.

Iain of course had none of this and curtly gave his brother a clip around the ear, stating that in his defence he needed to get a better look at his body to check more thoroughly for other injuries.

Now here they were; Iain prodding at the knee wound with Alfred crouching at his flank. Dear little Arthur whimpering at their touch whilst avoiding their eyes. This was too embarrassing…

"So lad, tell me, did ye ever get thee firewood?" Iain finally asked, roughly wiping the dried blood around the wound with some damp toilet paper.

"Did it look like I came back with some bloody wood?"

"Nah, nah, lad, don't get snippy. I'm only tryin' t' help."

True, in recent years Iain was a little less of a bastard-brother to Arthur. It seemed in his older age he'd also become fairly mature. His drunken rages rarely flared up around others, he resisted the urge to be cruelly violent to his youngest brothers and better still, he had the curtsy to smoke those damned disgusting cigarettes outside the house… but even so, Arthur felt rather edgy around the Scot.

Scotland fell silent as he continued to exam the wound more thoroughly before announcing:

"Yer gonna need that one stitched." England glanced up at him, terror in his eyes.

"So we're taking him to the hospital?"

"Can't lad," Scotland turned to a silently fascinated America. "Roads ar' too icy this time-a night t' be travellin'. Can't risk it. An' besides, thee hospital's gonna be busy this time-a year."

"N-now hold on! I-I can wait until after Christmas, can't I?"

"Lad, where d'ye keep yer sewin' kit?"

"If you have the bloody intention of sewing me up, then why would I tell you, you wanker?!" Iain rolled his eyes. So much for trying to be a good brother.

"Right then… I'll leave ye to take a bath with yer boyfriend. Get thee wounds nice an' clean," He said with a sigh, stepping from the room and closing the door behind. "Meanwhile, I'll find that kit."

"H-he's not my…!"

Iain had simply diagnosed Arthur with a broken ankle and a few bruises along with the gash, some light cuts over his ribs and upper arms with relatively little blood elsewhere – but even so, if wee little brother refused to believe his kindness then so be it. He'd let Alfred deal with bath time. He'd return afterwards with a sterilised needle, some thread and perhaps something to serve as a local anaesthetic for the injury. Then, he'd locate the first aid kit for the other injuries.

Alfred grinned. He kneeled down by the bathtub, popped the plug in and turned the faucet on. The water sputtered and sputtered and finally, it came out in a great gushing torrent.

"Dude, your brother's awesome."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew him forty years ago."

"Was he a grumpy dick like you?"

"Shut up, idiot!"

Alfred turned away quietly. He didn't really blame the short blonde for acting so testy; he was probably feeling humiliated. England's ex-colony was taking care of him like he was a little child. God, how the tables had turned. And Scotland was in the equation just to make matters worse.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, America kneeling by the bath with his arm testing the water, adjusting it accordingly, England sitting on the toilet with his arms crossed over his chest. Arthur turned his head turned away whenever the hero flashed him a warm reassuring smile.

"D'you want me to put some bubble bath in?"

"…The honey and ginger one… please…"

Alfred reached for the under-sink rack for the bottles of bubble bath. There were several bottles, each looked well-used and each filled with an oddly interesting coloured liquid. He ghosted his fingertips over each bottle, scanning the labels for the correct flavour until he found the one Artie most desired.

He unscrewed the cap and went along with pouring the fragrant apricot-orange liquid under the hot water tap. Gradually, the water began to foam and fluffy white bubbles rose from the water level.

A fine whitish steam rose up from the bath indicating it's luxury heat. Alfred turned the taps, stopping the water flow. Arthur shivered a little, rubbing his hands over his upper arms, trying to smooth out his goose-pimply skin.

"Okay, get in!"

"Not when you're in here!" Alfred sauntered over, catching the Brit under his arms. Retaliation left Alfred with his glasses on the floor by the laundry basket.

"C'mon man! That hurt!"

"I am perfectly capable of getting in myself!"

"You can't get in with your underwear on!"

"Idiot! Get off! Don't do that, idiot America!" Arthur kicked with his single good leg, trying to refrain the bold younger nation from pulling the thin tri-coloured garment off of his body.

* * *

Minutes of struggling past. Alfred only stopped wrestling with the older man after fearing he may cause his injuries to worsen. Backing up from the toilet with his hands held up, Alfred turned around.

"Okay dude. You take 'em off. Then I'll help you in, alright?"

"…Fine. Then get out! I can bathe myself!"

"Yeah… but can you get out on your own?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it!"

When America was told to look, England was desperately trying to cover the private regions of his body. Hell, it wasn't like America hadn't seen him naked before – that old England did some weird things when he got drunk at Matthew's birthday last July. It made the American mentally giggle when he remembered the Brit's silly antics, making it Mattie's most memorable and most humiliating birthday to date.

* * *

The bath didn't go as smoothly as it could have, especially because in the end Al refused to leave the sulky Englishman. Arthur was unusually worked up today and Alfred wasn't absolutely certain why.

"Where are you looking?! Perverted brat!"

"Sorry!"

"Damn it, I can do it myself!"

"Quit fussing, Artie! Geez, you're acting like a little kid!"

"You're getting soap in my eyes!"

"Sorry! Hold still and I'll rinse it out!"

It was an agonising fifteen minutes. By the end of it, Arthur was tired, frustrated and didn't seem to give two damns when he stood bare when Alfred pulled him out of the basin and wrapped a towel around his waist. Alfred sat with the shivering Arthur on his lap, back on the toilet seat lid armed with a second towel.

He began to thoroughly rub him down in gentle circular motions of the towel, restraining with one hand. Alfred glanced warily at his leg sighing when he realised the wound was beginning to bleed again. He wiped the towel over it and held it firmly in place, hoping it'd clot despite needing stitches.

"Laddies, ye done yet?" Came a gruff voice.

"Yeah, yeah. Come in."

The door was kicked open, using his hip to keep it pried as he awkwardly shimmied his way in. His arms were filled with bits and pieces, including a couple of boxes and several rolls of bandages and a bottle of something. Rum.

"Wanker! You got into my liquor cabinet! How much have you drank?!"

"Not enough, it seems." Iain replied with a roll of his eyes. That England-brat should be lucky that his big brother was sober. Otherwise he'd of gotten a good clout around the ear for being so mouthy to his older, wiser and daresay, _nicer_ big brother.

Iain sat by his brother's legs surrounded by the brought gear; a box of first aid equipment, a sewing kit, the rum, a small hand towel and spare dressings all laid out and ready.

"Thee needle an' thread's sterile. Hold him still, lad." Arthur panicked. Immediately the thrashing began again, throwing poorly co-ordinated punches at his companions. Alfred grunted when one weakly landed across his cheek.

Sitting back down Iain rubbed the back of his neck. He reluctantly put down the threaded needle on top of the sewing box – he'd have to cleanse it again now – and reached for the bottle, resisting the urge to take a nice deep swig. Until Arthur calmed down he didn't speak.

"Alright lad… aye, I know it's gonna hurt like bleedin' hell but it can't be helped. Be brave fer me, will ye?" He took the liquor and pushed it to his brother's lips, dropping the hand towel on his lap.

"A good lap-a that will ease thee pain, lad. And if ye have the urge to scream bloody blue murder, bite thee rag."

Arthur drank, downing a third of the bottle's remnants. It wasn't a strong rum but enough to dull the senses… a perfect way to lighten the pain of the needle being threaded through his flesh.

While they waited for it to take effect, Ian heated the needle again under the bathroom tap. Alfred held Arthur comfortably, holding him firm yet gently against his chest, callousing his damp hair.

When Arthur finally did begin to succumb to the alcohol and his own genuine exhaustion (the sweet aroma of the bubble bath wafting helped this along) and fell slightly limp, Iain re-approached with the needle in one hand. Sensing it, Arthur sluggishly pushed part of the hand towel between his teeth to muffle his cries.

"Easy now lad."


	4. A Conversation Past Midnight

**Chapter 4:**** A Conversation Past Midnight**

* * *

Arthur's knee was aching. Iain had done a lovely job at stitching the deep gash and he'd be as good as new, hopefully without any defiante scarring. The healing process for any nation was a speedy one after all but it was the stitching that kick-started the process.

Now the Brit lay in his lavish double bed up in his room snuggled beneath the white sheets with his head resting on his plump Union Jack pillow. The rum was swimming through his head, working its way around his body. His other wounds were simply taken care of with some simple adhesive band-aids from the first aid kit.

His broken ankle had been set by Iain himself at some point… who knows when. Arthur simply decided he passed out at some point, quite possibly from the pain or exhaustion… or both.

"Alright lad, I'll be off then."

"Huh? Where ya going?"

"Home. I was only meant t' stay fer a bit, just to drop off some presents. Did the same fer the Irelands an' Wales… I fancy a nice Christmas in thee highlands this year…"

"But what about the roads? You said they were too icy, right?"

"Ah, don't worry lad. Ye arrived after me, ye should know that was a little fib!"

The voices of Alfred and Ian outside the bedroom door made Arthur a little more alert as he strained to listen in on them.

"Anyways… I've left thee presents by thee sofa. Merry Christmas."

"Yeah… okay, Merry Christmas, Iain. Drive safe."

"Aye, thank ye laddie, I will."

"Wait! Hey, aren't you gonna say bye to Artie?"

There was a pause and the door creaked open slightly. The Scot peered through the gap, bright green eyes aglow and unblinking. A few seconds passed and Iain disappeared from sight again.

"Nah, he's asleep. Don't want t' wake thee wee lad." Alfred and Iain continued to talk but Artie quickly lost interest. He was still feeling drowsy with some aftermath nausea from the rum but with a small headache still lingering deep within the back of his skull.

The front door slammed shut followed by the stalled revving of a car engine. Arthur could sleep more easily now that… that savage wasn't here anymore. But he couldn't help but feel a little guilty about his own objectionable behaviour. Well… he at least wanted to see his brother off… too late now. All he could do was watch him drive away from the window. Getting up, he was careful not to put any pressure on his ankle, and then limped over to the window.

His room overlooked the driveway and front gardens. It also gave him a wonderful view – from it he could see over the low treeline of the forest and even over the neighbouring farmlands. In the very far distance, the city of London was brightly illuminated with a series of oranges and yellows. The city never slept no matter the time of day or where you were. Always alive with the heartbeat of civilisation. His people.

Arthur spent so much of his time around others among the other city dwellers that he found his country home almost… unbearable. It was lonely here.

Oh God, he regretted it now. Why didn't he just jump up when Ian peeked in? Why didn't he just shout out:

_"I'm okay! Big brother, stay here with me for Christmas! You can sleep here and come to France's for Christmas lunch!"_

But big brother would've only laughed at the desperate request. Wouldn't he…?

Arthur had learnt that speaking in such a cutesy manner to Ian would only earn him a tormenting scold and a light beating for acting like such a baby or as the Scot put it, 'Nancy-boy'.

* * *

"Artie, you're awake?" England continued to gaze across the countryside.

"Don't call me that. I'd appreciate it if you called me by my actual name. Idiot."

"Dude, you love it really. It sounds way cooler than 'Arthur'!"

Alfred appeared at his side. Resting his arms on the window sill he leaned forward with a grin. Arthur couldn't be bothered to stir up another fight with the rambunctious younger nation.

"Hey, now that reminds me… why are you here?" Al blinked.

"Why're askin'? Why, shouldn't I be here?"

"It's not that. I just didn't expect to see you before Christmas day. That's all."

"Well… I guess I just wanted to see how you were. Good thing too! Ha-ha!"

"Yes… I s'pose, luv." The word slipped. America hadn't been addressed as 'luv' since… well, since he was a little colony. Now as a global superpower, he was probably too much of a 'hero' to be called suchlike. Alfred smiled such a happy smile.

"You knew I was here?"

"Well, you weren't in London. Dragged my ass there and back. Where else would you be?"

Arthur chuckled warmly.

"I s'pose you're right there, luv. What time is it?"

"It was ten-thirty when we got back… but now it's…" Alfred reached into his pocket pulling out his phone. "…Quarter-to twelve."

"Bloody hell, it's late… well, there's some sheets in the airing cupboard, if you want to use the guest room."

Alfred stuck his bottom lip out.

"Aw… the bed's not already made…? Can't I just sleep in here?"

"What? No!"

"Please…? Please, please? You've got a double bed!" Arthur tensed up feeling the large nation's arms wrap across his shoulders. "C'mon! We can keep each other company… and in the morning, you could make me some, uh… breakfast?"

Well… he did want company. And America sounded like he did too.

"Fine. Just stay on your side of the bed and please refrain from stealing the blanket," Arthur pulled the curtains across, hobbling back to the bed. "It's bloody freezing tonight."

Alfred pulled off his bomber jacket and shirt to reveal a white tank top. When the American began pulling off his jeans Arthur had to say something.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Don't you have any pyjamas? Or any spare clothes for that matter?!"

"Yeah… but I left them in the car. Whoops, right? Don't have a problem, do you?"

"Not before I realised you'd only be wearing your sodding underwear, idiot!"

Alfred only smiled.

"I'm gonna lock up the rest of the house. Be back a minute, don't wait up!"

* * *

"Hey… America… are you asleep?" The pair were lying in bed. Arthur was staring up on the ceiling, Alfred lying on his side.

"Trying to, dude." He sounded slightly irritable but turned to face his ex-caretaker.

"Sorry… I just find it hard to believe that you'd want to come and see me. You came all this way and you didn't need to…" Arthur bit his lip. He rolled so his back was to him, burying his cheek deep into the duck-feather pillow, seeking it's warmth and comfort.

"Well… believe it. I don't see you enough anymore, so I thought it'd be okay," The bed dipped a little as Al scooted a little closer. Arthur said nothing.

"So… how're you feeling? You blacked out by the time Scotland finished the stitching. He got kinda worried, you know."

"What? And you weren't?!"

"Of course… I just… didn't think the almighty United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would care what I thought. I'm just that 'idiot-America' to you and everyone else. If anything, I should be the one worried if anyone gives a shit about me."

His words left Arthur feeling even guiltier. So, Alfred was feeling lonely…? Unloved, even?

"…I'm fine… thank you for asking, luv."

"Good. Now, sleep, please?"

Arthur squirmed beneath the covers. He wanted to make himself feel better. He wanted to make Alfred feel better. He shuffled silently towards the American until he felt something solid: his shoulder. Arthur sniffled a little. He brought his trembling arms up, ghosting them over his companion's pleasant warmth. Even after the kindly prepared bath Arthur's own skin had once again grown cold to the touch.

"Hey what the hell happened to 'Stay on your side of the bed'?" Alfred snapped when icy fingers contacted him. Arthur said nothing. He withdrew back a bit, then pushed his head beneath his arm until Alfred's arm was draped over his neck. Then, he buried his nose into his side, sighing quietly with relief.

"You're freezing…!" Al growled, ripping his arm away. Arthur tilted his head allowing him to look Alfred in the eyes. "Hey… Artie, what's wrong?" Damn, had he done something to upset the Brit?

"I'm sorry… I've been a complete twat – to you and Ian. I didn't even get to say goodbye! Now he won't want to talk to me for another bloody decade because I couldn't stifle myself after you were both only trying to help…"

His eyes began to well, becoming glossy and wet. He grasped at Alfred's tank top with tightened fists until his knuckles turned white.

"Artie…"

"I thought you were both talking total bollocks. I wasn't grateful for what you both did… and I should've!" Several fat tears dropped onto Alfred's chest.

"Hey, calm down… I'm not mad… neither was Ian."

"He was too! He's always mad at me! He always mad at everyone!" The American rolled his eyes. Oh God. The rum…

"Dude, it's just the booze talking… you're gonna go to sleep now and then in the morning you're gonna have a hangover. Make it easier on yourself and just go to sleep, okay?"

"Shut up!"

So Alfred did. He began rubbing Arthur's back, hoping the tears would subside and he'd fall asleep. It wasn't that he didn't like Iggy's drunken affections… it just felt kinda awkward. They weren't in a relationship of any kind… or with anyone else for that matter.

Small sobs burbled from the depths of Arthur's throat indicating he hadn't yet passed out, so Alfred moved to petting his head with surprisingly smooth and dexterous fingers. He hummed 'Star Spangled Banner'. Once he'd gone through a couple rounds, he switched and began to murr what little of 'God save the Queen' he could remember. He finally struggled through several additional minutes before glancing over to check on Iggy.

He'd defiantly calmed down. The occasional tear trailed along with a hiccup but he was calmer all the same. Not asleep. But this was good enough.

"Hey, America?"

"Mm…"

"Remember when you little; I use to do this for you?"

"Yep… I happen to recall it."

"Why are you doing it for me?"

"Well… I guess for starters, you put me in this situation."

"Yes…" Alfred pulled the blanket snugly over Arthur covering him nicely but leaving himself without any coverage on his upper body.

"Well… you use to do this when I couldn't sleep. I got nightmares and… ha… y'know…"

"Wet the bed…?"

"Yeah…" Al coughed. "…You always made me feel better. You were my big brother… and well, I guess I'm returning the favour."

Silence again.

"Hey America…"

"Look dude, just try to sleep, okay? You'll feel better in the morning, believe me." Apart from the rum-induced splitting headache he'd get.

"But America…"

"Dude, England, please…?"

"But America… I want to say 'thank you'. You saved me out in the woods… I could still be there now. And then-"

"…Don't mention it. I'm the hero, remember?"

Arthur nodded, snuggling deeper into Alfred. He put an arm around the American's slightly pudgy belly caused by his all-hamburger and milkshake diet and let out another contented sigh. Alfred exhaled softly simultaneously – seemed he was going to be stuck like this after all.

But he couldn't complain.

Arthur was a royal English pain and Alfred was equally as bad… but because they were at each other's throats constantly didn't mean they couldn't or shouldn't care for each other.

As far as Alfred was concerned, they were still like family. And he loved it. Regardless of what the Brit would say or do to try and harm him, he couldn't be mad. Not forever. He wasn't that kind of nation. And he certainly didn't want to turn out like Kiku and Yao – hurt and torn apart by war even after their many hundreds of years together.

He was sure he and Arthur would be close forever. That maybe one day, they'd actually be together.

Just because something in the past destroyed them as brothers, did not mean they couldn't continue as something more. And America found comfort with that in mind. That lovely, warm, bubbly thought. Smiling fondly he was sure Arthur felt the same.

"You awake, Artie?"

"Go to sleep, wanker."


End file.
